AN: My second post today. I've had this idea for a long time and I felt bad leaving y'all hanging without a plot! Here it is. Let me clarify about the Tragedy thing. Ever read Romeo and Juliet? Well, they spend some time happy but not nearly enough to make up for the misery that ensues…
Revised, because of one grammatical error! 4/18/03
I own nothing having to do with the Moulin Rouge.
~*~
"Eights?" demanded a shrill voice, and a card was handed across the table. Stowing the pair beneath an empty glass, a pale girl threw her head back to down the sharp, green contents of another. Absinthe was cheap and coarse, but it worked. Underneath the Moulin Rouge, that was how it was—rough, unpolished, effective. Just above their heads, that never would have done. Here the girls lethargically chattered and lounged, ignoring the beat of the music and cheers that filtered through the ceiling.
Satine slinked in, heart beating so quickly in her chest that it threatened to burst with exhilaration. Her dancing shoes made soft pattering noises as she ran to the rack of clothes. Pulling off her dress, she looked nervously around, holding a second one to herself. Jagged, hyena-like laughter echoed from the corner as one of the legs broke off a tipping chair.
"Birdie!" came the warning from her opponent. Looking up from her cards, the woman saw Satine cowering close by. "God, what the hell are you doing here if you're so modest you can't even change clothes?" Her tongue loosened with alcohol and hours of pointless games, Nutmeg wasn't through yet.
"Giving you star treatment when you haven't even been here a… night. Zidler must be a fool. They all have talent, until he's made a buck off 'em. Then it's back to the street, where you belong. We're all gonna be gone in a year, five if we're lucky." The words where slurred, but their pointed edges were unsoftened. "Where are you going to go then? Where, you stupid little French maid? Put on a short skirt and an apron and make your new goal the head o'the household! That's the only man you deserve. What are you doing here, rubbing shoulders with the aristocracy? And Zidler didn't even send you out on the street, get you acquainted with the business first. Said you should be 'pure.' It'd complete your image, wouldn't it, you innocent little fu—"
"Angel!" Harold Zidler burst into the room, arms spread. It took him a moment to figure out what was happening, Satine clutching an outfit against her body as she flattened herself farther against the wall with Nutmeg towering over her, looking wild. He turned around and led the darker woman back to the card table, giving Satine the time to slip into the elaborate costume.
"Lace you up, Chickpea?" he inquired casually, quickly fastening a million tiny hooks and ties that resided all over the dress. "I have excellent news! Men keep on coming up to me and raising the price. They love you!" He twirled her around and wiped a kohl-streaked tear from her face. "You do want to go to the elephant, right, darling?" She nodded, stifling a tiny sob. Worry crossed his face for a moment. "If you're not ready…." Satine tilted her face upward and looked him in the eyes. She hated the makeup he wore; it always made her feel like he was hiding from her behind it.
"I'm ready for anything, Harold," she said, sounding determined to his ears that would take years to recognize whether she was acting or not. He smiled, reassured, and gave her his arm.
"To the elephant, then! You just may have a maharaja tonight."
~*~
When she awoke the next morning, Satine silently cursed her surroundings. Extravagance and vulgarity rested upon the chaise and were painted into the very artwork that hung on the walls. She could see the tray that still held the wine glasses she and the maharaja had emptied the night before. She saw their footprints in the rich rug. But he was gone.
When the girls had sat her down and talked her through what would come, they had made it seem so different. He was just a man who happened to be there, the primary person was her. All that mattered was what she did and that she got paid for it.
But that wasn't how it was. She had never imagined that she would have figured it out the moment she handed him the skinny-stemmed glass…
How quaint, how freakin' quaint. A courtesan in love. My god, figure it out! It's the wine…
That's all I can let it be.
The wine. She held her head in her hand for a moment and got up, draping the robe someone had brought for her around herself and walked on bare feet down to where the other girls were.
~*~
"How'd it go, love?" Birdie asked, looking a different person without a glass of absinthe cradled in her hand. She was bright and happy this morning, and her daily bottle laid, still corked, to her left. Satine groaned and walked over to the bottle and drank directly from it. Anyone else would have received a quick, painful slap, but Satine got only an understanding look.
"You say you do this every day?" she asked, not expecting Birdie's laughter.
"Not every day, Zidler lets us take some off. But that's pretty much how it is." Satine didn't even bother to react, so deep was her exhaustion and confusion. "You can get your money from him tonight before the show. Apparently, though, your maharajah gave you some jewels too?" It was not uncommon, but it was nearly a ritual to show them off before throwing them into a fire. They only showed ownership, and that was the unique, seductive quality about the girls that made them so intriguing to men—they had no master. The Diamond Dogs didn't wear leashes, only jewel-encrusted collars.
Satine found the necklace in the pocket of the robe. It was heavy and posh, worth more than everything in the little room that the girls gathered in.
Birdie laughed again, high and shrill, and grabbed the necklace. Holding it around her neck, she whispered "He must really love you."
~*~
AN: That's it for Chapter 2. You obviously can tell by now that the story works on suggestion, not "Then she put her hands blah blah blah blah…" You get my point. That's why it's PG-13. Please review!